


less than salt, less than stone

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s11e10 The Devil Is In The Details, Extended Scene, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Sick Dean Winchester, Smiting Sickness, Touchy-Feely, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vomiting, cas is the rough equivalent of a mommy bird, lowkey meta, sort of, what a sugarplum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean is sick, he can't stifle his thoughts and shove them away like he normally can.</p><p>Or: Cas tries to help and Dean accidentally gets real with himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	less than salt, less than stone

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to start off by saying that this scene made my life and i am a sinner  
> second, poking at dean's brain is seriously painful and i've made myself sad  
> and third,, castiel's love for dean destroys me,,, like bby,,,,,, ur so gay oh my god  
> with those things aside, this is basically an in-depth rewrite of the "smiting sickness" scene from 11x10 because i'm gross and there's something very appealing about dean throwing his guts up on the side of the road idk ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> beta'd ur welcome  
> the title is from a poem aptly named "Lot's Wife" by Marguerite Young (i put the last two verses in the end notes too)

The double-vision hits him first; all surroundings undergo meiosis, and pure confusion outweighs dizziness. He’s known to hold the wheel with one hand and a beer with the other, sure, but he’s never been _drunk_ and he’s confident that he’s not drunk now.

_What the hell…_

Then, _then_ the dizziness comes. It’s a frightening feeling, to be so seemingly untethered and weightless that anything could whisk him off into oblivion.

There’s a memory that accompanies this, one he can’t help but focus on.

They’d left the car, for whatever reason-- probably one of the rare occasions it got busted up enough to warrant a visit to Bobby’s shop-- and a high-speed train had been propelling them from Topeka to Oklahoma City. The three of them, like it used to be, before time had swept the most desperate of crumbs of happiness under the rug and things, as they often do, changed.

Dad with his journal balanced on his knee, taking down hasty notes. Sam, only six years old and still very much a baby brother, occupying Dad’s thigh as a makeshift pillow. And himself, tucked under Dad’s free arm, dizzy and sick from the train, listening to an Eagles tape on his Walkman.

Dad paused every now and again to smooth down Sammy’s dark curls and adjust the jacket thrown over his little sleeping body. During that time, Dad would ask _him_ how he was feeling, and he would offer a wobbly thumbs-up, and Dad would pull him a bit closer and kiss the crown of his head. _Just a little longer, kiddo, you’re alright._

His stomach does a pretty spectacular barrel-roll and he’s dragged back to reality. The nausea hits so suddenly that for a second he thinks he might have imagined it, but then a familiar and awful feeling rises in his throat, and he desperately swallows it down. Not now, not right now, _he’s_ _got to find Amara._

The feeling comes back and it’s worse this time. No more false alarms. Saliva fills his mouth, thick and sour, and his body feels heavy, and--

_fuck, fuck, fuck--_

He pulls off onto the gravel at the side of the road, rams the gear into idle, and fumbles with his door for a terrifying moment before succeeding in throwing himself out of the car. He’s still got his hand on the door when he first starts to retch, and shuts it behind him in favor of bracing himself on his knees as he vomits. It doesn’t really work; dizziness washes over him again and he stumbles back, dropping to the ground and leaning against the Impala’s engine-warmed metal. He coughs, which quickly turns into a dry-heave, and _God_ , he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this nauseous in his whole life.  

_“Dean.”_

He’d know that voice anywhere, and that’s a little embarrassing if he’s honest. He comforts himself with the notion that it’s only because they’ve been in this together for seven years, and homoerotic undertones probably show up for everybody by that point, regardless of orientation.

“I came as soon as you called. Are you alright?”

Combined with the overwhelming nausea and the persistent vertigo, Dean is half-inclined to believe that the blurred figure rapidly approaching him is a hallucination. But then his friend comes into focus, and it’s all too real, and he can’t fucking believe his luck.

“Cas?” He wants to respond further, but the words won’t come.

He knows it’s going to happen moments before it does, but he’s determined to keep the last shreds of his dignity in check, and that means _not_ throwing up in front of his best friend. He doesn’t even let Sam see him when he’s sick. Castiel comes with an entire new set of rules, things Dean can't let him in on, things he needs to stifle.

He gags, leans to the side-- away from Castiel, like he can really hide what’s going on-- and violently expels the rest of his stomach's contents onto the gravel next to him.

A gentle hand grips his shoulder, keeping him from pitching into the mess, and he wishes he could be anywhere but here. He coughs and spits, and a groan rips from his throat. He’d be humiliated about that if he had the energy.

Castiel looks him over with concern, painfully genuine as always, brow furrowed in a way that seems to exaggerate the sharp point of his nose and the circles under his eyes.

It’s not ugly, though, not at all. On the contrary--

“You’re not alright,” Castiel says, breaking Dean’s train of thought before it gets weird. Or weirder.

“Obviously,” Dean croaks, and wipes his sleeve over his mouth. “What’s wrong with me?”

Castiel palms Dean’s forehead, the back of his skull thudding against the car. It’s too much contact and he wants to make it stop, but he’s totally wiped out. Castiel starts checking his eyes, hurried and frantic in his movements but never rough in the slightest, and Dean manages a weak, “what are you doing, what are you--?”

“Stick out your tongue.”

“What?” In his haze, it comes out slurred, and he complies with Castiel's instructions without getting an answer. The angel takes hold of Dean’s jaw, and a rush of embarrassment mixed with-- he isn't sure and he doesn't want to know-- fills his chest, because there’s _definitely_ puke still on his chin and Castiel doesn’t even care. Dean can barely stand vomit, and he’s human; as a divine being, Castiel should be repulsed, shouldn’t want to touch Dean at all.

But there’s not an ounce of disgust on his face, only worry, and Dean decides not to ask why. Instead he pulls away, hates himself for it (why can’t he just take the comfort, why can’t he let himself have this?), and wipes a hand over his mouth again. “Alright, are we done?”

“No, I…” The deep concern in Castiel's expression hasn’t alleviated, and he raises a finger. “Let me take your temperature.”

That must have a completely different connotation, like maybe Castiel is able to become one of those ear thermometers or something, but Dean’s brain automatically goes to _butt stuff, he means butt stuff, what the ever-loving--_

“No, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean says, finding a small window of lucidity and batting Castiel's hand away. He shifts, trying to sit up taller, then coughs through the urge to gag. One of his hands goes to his stomach as he grits his teeth around a belch, and he wishes he could let Castiel mother him the way Castiel clearly wants to. But he can’t. _They_ can’t.

“How far are we from the event?” Castiel asks, apparently picking up the cue to switch subjects.

“You mean the angel nuke?”

“Yeah.”

Dean glances down the road. “Ground zero’s about a mile down that way.” His gut cramps, forcing him to bow his head and draw a shaky breath.

“Okay, that explains it. You’re suffering from smiting sickness.” Castiel doesn’t talk like Dean should know what that is, which Dean is grateful for, because being frustrated on top of feeling like absolute garbage wouldn’t have been fun.

“That’s a thing?”

“Yeah. The angels, what they did, it released a tremendous amount of energy. And there’s fallout, so this whole area is poisoned.”

Other angels-- other unearthly creatures in general, actually-- tend to have a nasty habit of speaking in riddles, most likely to maintain an air of mystery. But Castiel has been around humanity long enough, has fallen in love with it enough, to know that cutting to the chase is highly valued. Especially with hunters. Especially with Dean.

“You can heal me, right?” Because if he’s not the one to find Amara, someone else will, and he can’t let her get hurt and he’s guilty as hell about that.

“No, I can’t,” Castiel barely pauses to register the affronted look on Dean’s face, “and the closer you get to the blast site, the worse your sickness will become.”

“How worse?” If it meant sucking it up and having to puke his guts out every few minutes in order to get there, he’d do it. He wouldn’t like it, and it would suck, but he’d do it.

Castiel considers the question. “The last time there was a smiting of this magnitude, Lot’s wife turned to salt.”

_… Oh._

Dean looks down the road again. Impending doom and guaranteed death is more or less a deal-breaker. “Awesome,” he mutters.

“Alright, Dean, you need to go back,” Castiel says, using a no-nonsense tone that Dean refuses to fall for, and helps Dean to his feet.

“Uh, no,” Dean protests, unable to figure out why Castiel would even suggest that idea, because _why the fuck_ would he agree to that?

But then the world tips thirty degrees on his way up, drawing a low moan from his chest, and his resolve drops a little. “No, no, we gotta--” He swallows and inhales, oxygen flooding his brain and bringing more clarity. Castiel remains within centimeters of him, obviously prepared to help if the need arises; but what Dean needs is space, and he puts his hand out so Castiel will back up a step or two. “We gotta go see if it worked, see if Amara’s alive or dead.”

“ _We_ don’t.” The intensity in Castiel's gaze is consistent. The only change is his arms hanging at his sides, limp without the permission to reach out, to care for, to _touch_. “The fallout doesn’t affect angels. I’ll go in alone.”

Dean wants to protest because splitting up always ends in disaster, he’s been around long enough to know that. He’s poised to argue, has the words on his tongue, but nausea grips him fast and he turns his head a little, determined not to vomit a third time but not wanting Castiel to see it if he does. He feels Castiel watching him, clearly desperate to help or to ease the discomfort by some human means, but unsure of how to do so without contact. His eyes are dark, somber, and yet so fucking tender and full of unconditional love, and all Dean can think about is how much he _doesn’t_ deserve this.

That’s why he can’t. Not because he’s afraid of the vulnerability, or because he doesn’t want to accept this part of himself, although those things might be true. No, it’s because Dean’s self-destructive bullshit is so toxic that it essentially has its own blast radius, and Castiel has already suffered the effects of it from growing _this_ close to him. He won’t make it worse by pulling Castiel in even further. He can’t bear to think of the damage that would cause, the cataclysmic results that would stem from his honesty.

The threatening nausea fades and he closes his eyes, taking a second to regain his composure. “Okay, yeah, it’s-- it’s probably better that way,” he admits, drawing his wrist over his mouth one more time for good measure. “I’ll take a drive, I’ll go check on Sam.” He searches for somewhere else to look, settles on the overcast grey sky, and takes a deep breath.

“Right.” Probably tired of Dean’s evasive crap and feeling useless in the event he isn't allowed to provide comfort, Castiel turns to leave. “Good.”

Fuck, he can’t let him go like that. “Hey, Cas?” He calls after him, and the words _I’m sorry, I’m so damn sorry_ are in his head and not to be spoken, at least not here.

Castiel faces him again, and he hates how expectant Castiel looks, how he lacks any exasperation or anger, how willing Castiel is just to _listen_ to him if nothing else. “... If it did work, and she is dead… bring her body out.”

“And if she’s not?”

He hadn’t given that much thought, but there’s a chance at that. More than a chance. It’s a fifty-fifty, the worst play of Russian Roulette, and if he could, Dean would sooner bet his own life than let his best friend walk into that. However beautiful Amara is, how radiant her smile or how gentle her hands … she’d killed hundreds, whether she’d seen as killing or not. She’s a literal force of nature, the epitome of void, an implosion. A black hole. And given the chance, if provoked, she’d sure as hell squash Castiel like an insect.

The sudden rush of fear that pumps through his veins overpowers the sick feeling, because the possibility that this is the last time he’ll ever see Castiel is horrifyingly real, and there’s still nothing he can do about it.

_“Run.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, well I know  
> How I have turned  
> Like one who watched  
> A town that burned.
> 
> And he who lives  
> In what has flown  
> Is less than salt,  
> Is less than stone.


End file.
